


Always the Helper

by Marlena_Owens



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 05:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlena_Owens/pseuds/Marlena_Owens
Summary: Melancholy Hilda reflecting on her life, family, and others' perceptions of her.Canon-compliant T+ references to themes such as sex, self-harm, and witchcraft.





	Always the Helper

"Hilda the Helper."

That's what Zelda used to frequently call me to be cruel but now only occasionally uses to remind me of past cruelties.

"Always the helper, never the whore," she would say as I counselled friends through their relationships while yearning for one of my own during our maiden years. 

I think perhaps some people assume I'm a bit ditzy or unintelligent because of the blonde hair and pink lipstick and embarassed giggles and such, but I think perhaps some people are wrong. 

I've no doubt spent my life nearly suffocating under Zelda's tall, thin shadow, but she's certainly never managed to snuff me out entirely... well, not for very long anyway. 

Living with Zelda has forced me to be strong in a lot of ways... and not many of them warm and fuzzy. 

Years of sibling rivalry spitefully nurtured by an unrelenting sister beginning months before my birth and continuing until now have taught me not only to survive, but to thrive. Can't let Zelds have all the fun now, can I? I am, after all, a Spellman and a witch. Never to be outdone. 

The lamb image I project to others is not entirely outside of my control. I use people's assumptions to my advantage. You know what they say about assuming, mind you. 

Many a friend and enemy alike has unwittingly made themselves vulnerable by bearing it all to a nonthreatening entity such as myself. Little old Hilda. 

Little old Hilda who watches. And remembers. Just in case what I learn might come in handy. Collecting and recording information-- admitted weaknesses and charming details noticed by an eye attuned to noticing the ignored. 

Your favourite green tea makes that bit of flame lily slide down your wee throat far more smoothly, Aunt Hildy always says. 

I see. People may not see that I see. But I do. 

Ambrose fucking away a self-hatred ever magnified by being trapped so close to demons in a house too small to contain them. 

Zelda finding new and horrific ways to bloodlet and mar her body because she would rather create pain than admit to being pained.

A Lord to whom I professed my soul and total devotion who decidedly knows about my baptismal indiscretion many moons ago. 

And dear, dear Sabrina. Sabrina, who wants so desperately to figure out what she loves best amidst a mass of opposing bastardizations that she risks sacrificing all she loves in the search. 

I see the mortals and the demons and the insects and the wind. I am powerful because I see. And I befriend. I assist worldly and supernatural forces in painting the picture of our town and weaving the web of our globe, all with a smile and a sweet treat to boot. 

No, I am not as weak or sweet or kind as everybody makes me out to be. In fact, I am far from any of those things. 

I care for others so as to avoid caring for myself. Every tender gesture bestowed upon Zelds is one of which I am undeserving. I relish in her offhanded dismissal-- or, if I'm lucky, scathing chastisement-- every time I annoy her with too much (never enough) affection. 

I "treat" myself with food, flowers, and frivolous mortals... because each often lends itself to mistakes, bad choices, and the resulting guilt and shame that I can never quite give up but so often loathe. 

I carefully iron and fold laundry for a teenager who had left it crumpled and a bit smelly on the floor of the loo. She will never utter a verbal thanks. 

I empty the rubbish bins in a room of a grown man trapped in unending adolescence, politely ignoring used rubbers haphazardly concealed under tissues. I leave out biscuits and two beers for an endless parade of boys whom I will never meet. 

The dear mortals repay my kindnesses far more than any coven kin, and the mortals aren't even aware of my magical influences in their lives. 

And I love what I do. Usually. 

True happiness is elusive of late. I'm feeling too much and too little at the same time and nobody notices. 

Everybody is so caught up in their own narrative that I'm often filed away as competent and alright in many a mind's eye. Always comforting but never in need of comfort. Smiling, so not possibly in need of help. 

I'm fine. I really am. I think.


End file.
